


Twa Ghoulies

by AkiRah



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Brief cameo of the Dog the Warden and Alistair, Couple of nothing NPCS mentioned, Gen, POV Second Person, brief mention of Warden/Alistair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-10 23:03:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4411325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkiRah/pseuds/AkiRah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A scout for the legion of the dead, after losing their squad, tries to make it back to Bownammar and stumbles across two ghouls tracking a pair of Wardens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twa Ghoulies

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired off the song "Twa Corbies" which is a Scottish Traditional piece. I've included the lyrics at the bottom. I really like writing in second person.

 

You have always hated the deep roads, but you joined the Legion because the Darkspawn must be stopped. Orzammar must be protected. You’re a scout. It’s one of the more dangerous posts and in the Legion that means something. But you’re good at it. You’re small and you’re quick and you’re quiet. Commander Kardol keeps shouting at you for sneaking up on him.

Not bad for a merchant’s heir.

So you and your unit were on patrol.

Ogres aren’t sneaky. Ogres aren’t quiet. Ogres are huge.

But by the Stone, it moved too fast for your friends to dodge. Bardok had thrown you out of the way, big, brawny, brave Bardok born noble but he wouldn’t tell you which house because he was dead and so were you. The ancestors would understand.

The boulder had killed Bardok instantly, but it gave you and Vrakna the opening to dart in and bury your knives in the ogre’s eyes.

It had crushed Vrakna to crimson paste and when it dropped you you twisted your ankle so bad you worry it might be broken.

But you can’t worry about that right now because you’re lost and alone in the deep roads and you need to report back to Kardol that the darkspawn are moving closer, trying to retake the fortress of Bownammar.

You are however, as previously mentioned, lost.

The few wardens you’ve met claim the Deep Roads are full of an oppressive silence. Humans and elves can’t hear the Stone and sometimes you have to remind yourself of that. At the moment, however, you think you know what the Wardens meant. The Stone is quiet. The Roads are dark.

You come across the tracks of the most recent wardens. They were alright, a man and a woman and a dog. They smiled at one another in a way you hadn’t seen wardens smile at each other. They held hands after they joined the Legion for a meal before disappearing into the Roads.

Maybe they have a map. If nothing else, you’re more use against the darkspawn at their side then you are on your own.

The silence is interrupted by the jangling of ill fitted armor on decaying leather scraps. You took a breath, filling your lungs and holding it silent as slip back into a deeper shadow and hope they don’t notice you.

Ghouls, not darkspawn. Hunched forward, pale broken shadows of what had been dwarves once, not long enough ago. One reaches up to scratch a pustule on its neck, you can see yellow and red pus and blood ooze over its greying skin.

“Hungry. Food. Fresh meat, better than slugs and scum and wall muck.” It says to its companion.

“Heard them. Hear them. Feel them.” The other hisses. “Not far. Not long. No no, so close. Already dead. Got them. Get them. Got them quick.”

At a loss for what else to do, you follow at a distance, keeping to the shadows, leaning heavily against the wall to keep weight off your injured ankle. It’s not a clever plan: following two ghouls towards their meal. But what choice do you have? Your knife is drawn, held in a back grip so the naked blade won’t catch the light.

They’re talking, as much as ghouls can talk, about the Wardens. You’ve heard that wardens can sense darkspawn and that the darkspawn can sense them in return. It’s always struck you as kind of a rough deal.

But then, you declared yourself dead to your father’s face, throwing off caste and clan to fight for what matters.

Maybe you can understand.

You squeeze the hilt of your knife and remind yourself that you’re already dead. You don’t feel dead though.

“How many?”

“One. Two. Two. One.” The second ghoul chomps its broken teeth together. “Fading. Fainting. I can feel them. One two. One warmer.”

_Warmer?_   you wonder. _What the Stone does warmer have to do with anything?_

“Fresh ripe. Just a taste first.”

_Hisssssssss!_ They swipe at one another, but they haven’t noticed you yet.

Paw prints in the dust steal your attention from the creatures in front of you. You’re going the right way at least. If you can out take the ghouls, you can reach the Wardens on your own. You swallow. Two ghouls, both armed and blighted and you with a broken ankle and a little knife.

You remind your hammering heart that it’s not supposed to be beating and you throw yourself forward. You remind yourself of Bardok, who took the boulder meant for you and Vrakna who gurgled her last scream, sword stuck through an Ogre’s cheek. You think about Kardol, who bitched about how sneaky you were and you remember your sweet merchant caste mother, her lips pressing to your forehead, sloppy tears sloshing down her squat round nose.

You are dead.

You have been dead for most of a year.

Your knife sticks into the first Ghoul’s neck. It’s more fargone than it’s companion  and stinks of decay and toxin more than of shit. It wrenches back, screaming, horrible broken teeth gnashing for your face as it twists to wrench free. You wish they died like living things died. A knife though its spine should have done it.

“More for me!” The other ghoul shrieks. “All is Rurek’s now! No share! Never!” It looks at you with fearful, hateful milky eyes and hisses again before scampering down the corridor, arms swinging. “No Stab! No Stab!”

You twist your knife in the neck of the ghoul you’re fighting. It finally goes limp. You hit the dirt when it does and choke back your scream as it lands on your bad ankle. The snap reverberates throughout the cavern. Everything smells like blood and shit and decaying flesh and your eyes water from stink and from pain. You kick the corpse away with your good leg and try to stand.

It won’t hold your weight.

You are not surprised.

You don’t want to die here. You don’t want to die alone. You wanted to die with others. You wish Bardok had let you catch that boulder.

But you’re not dead yet, not really, and so you grab the wall with your arm and tuck your broken ankle up and you start hopping slowly down the corridor after “Rurek” or whatever the blighted thing was. If you can find the Wardens, some good might come of this. You still need to tell Kardol about the coming assault. You still need to go out doing something.

It’s slow going in the dark. Your eyes are sharper than any topsider’s eyes could be and the Stone hums gently too you, but it is dark. It’s dark and each hop sends fresh waves of pain shooting through your broken ankle. You stop several times to tighten your bootstraps, trying to make a splint.

If you had an ax or a sword or anything but your small, blood coated dagger you’d have considered chopping the foot off by now. But all you have is your little bloody dagger and it stinks of darkspawn. You’re not letting that thing’s blood anywhere near your own. You’re not going to die of the sodding Blight.

You’re going to live for sodding ever.

Out of sodding spite.

You’re close now, you can hear discomforting sounds. A quick, wet scream and a throaty, canine growl that freezes your blood. Almost immediately these sounds stop and are replaced with tearing flesh and chewing sounds. Someone humming discordantly to them--its--self. You take a deep breath and slid your head around to check the hollow the sounds are coming from.

“Rurek” is dead. Blighted body broken and bent, the hound on its chest has a muzzle caked with fresh blood and is tearing into it, devouring the diseased flesh.

“You don’t want to do that,” you say weakly. You know this beast. Its ears lie flat against its skull as it looks up to snarl at you. The topsiders said the beast was a mabari hound, smartest of his breed. Eyes that had been intelligent, even kind, fix on you and are feral. You clutch your little knife. “It’ll make you bad inside.”

The hound cocks his head and whimpers. He looks down at the body and retches, vomiting up black bile and bits of flesh.

You take your eyes off the retching hound to study the camp. You are too late. The wardens are lying together, fingers still locked together. They are covered in blood. His shield is cleft in two. Her sword is broken and chipped. One pointed ear is missing.

But, to your horror, she is still breathing. Her chest rises shallowly, her fingers tighten around his.

It was her time. Her veins are black and bulging. She had been pretty at Bownammar.

“Alistair,” she says softly. “I’m sorry my love.”

The hound snarls again and you turn too late. The hurlock has his arrow nocked and the bow drawn.

You have been dead for most of a year.

* * *

 

_As I was walking all alane,_

_I heard twa corbies makin a mane;_

_The tane unto the ither say,_

_"Whar sall we gang and dine the-day?"_

_"In ahint yon auld fail dyke,_

_I wot there lies a new slain knight;_

_And nane do ken that he lies there,_

_But his hawk, his hound an his lady fair."_

_"His hound is tae the huntin gane,_

_His hawk tae fetch the wild-fowl hame,_

_His lady's tain anither mate,_

_So we may mak oor dinner swate."_

_"Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,_

_And I'll pike oot his bonny blue een;_

_Wi ae lock o his gowden hair_

_We'll theek oor nest whan it grows bare."_

_"Mony a one for him makes mane,_

_But nane sall ken whar he is gane;_

_Oer his white banes, whan they are bare,_

_The wind sall blaw for evermair."_

__


End file.
